And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen!- And did those feet, William Blake

torsdag 13. juni 2013

A Spanish Romance of Tristan

The romance of Tristan and Isolde is one of the most enduring and widely disseminated romances of the Middle Ages, and it was known in numerous renditions, adaptations and translation. In the mid-12th century, an Anglo-Norman verse rendition was written at the court of Henry II by an author known only by his first name, Thomas. This work survives only in fragmentary form, and was probably written for Eleanor of Aquitaine. M. Dominica Legge suggests that it was through the Angevins this work was transmitted to other countries. Through her daughters the opus most likely travelled to Spain, Sicily and Germany, and by 1226 it had also been rendered into Norwegian.

Tristan battling fourteen knights of the round table, from the Prose Tristan

The poem I want to present to you is a short Spanish ballad written sometime in the 15th or 16th centuries, known as Romance de Don Tristán. It depicts Tristan's death, but from the vantage point of an unknown female figure who concludes the narration with a strange story of her pregnancy. How this relate to the story of Tristan's death I do not know, but it is presumably an allusion to the Virgin Mary and the lily of the Annunciation. The translation is by J. M. Cohen.

Sir Tristram has been wounded by an evil lance-thrust, which the King his uncle gave him with a poisoned lance. He dealth it him from a tower, for he dared not come near. He has the iron in his body, and the haft trembles without; Queen Iseult, his lovely mistress, goes to see him, swathed in black cloth which was called the (cloth of) mourning.

Seeing him in such an evil plight, the sorrowful lady said: 'May he who wounded you, Sir Tristram, suffer in agony. For there is no surgeon to be found skilled enough to cure your wounds.'

They put their mouths together like tame turtle-doves. The one weeps, the other weeps, they bathe the bed in tears. There grew a bush that was called the white lily; any woman who eats of it immediately feels herself pregnant. I did so, poor girl that I am, to my own misfortune.

Om meg

Norwegian medievalist, bibliophile, lover of art, music and food. This blog is a mixture of things personal and scholarly and it serves as a venue for me to share things I find interesting with likeminded people.